The Puzzle
by angels-are-watching
Summary: Sherlock finds a new case involving a boy and his deceased father.


This is a fic I wrote a very long time ago, and I haven't edited it since then. I'd love feedback though! Here it is:

**The Puzzle**

It was pure alleviation when I heard the ring of the doorbell that day. Sherlock had been sulking around because he didn't have a case for maybe two days. Listening to him deduce everything about everyone that passed by our apartment was not what I called entertaining, and some were a little too detailed. His violin would have been a much better alternative, so whoever was at the door was an angel.

"Oh, it must be the bayonet I ordered!" exclaimed Sherlock. He opened the door, perplexed to see a little boy about the age of eight standing in the doorway. "John! I think we've got a client!"

"Please, sit," Sherlock said to the boy. He was wearing a big, worn down, dark green t-shirt that looks like it hasn't been washed in a while, light brown cargo shorts with camouflage patterns on it, nice white socks with clean, black tennis shoes. There was nothing special to him that I could see, or _observe_. Sherlock asked him to explain his issue.

"There is this one place I go to all the time when I want, like a club house! It's the clock tower down on the street to the left. I like it cause' it's quiet and no one ever goes there. I like to draw there. My dad's an artist if you didn't know."

"Yes, yes, now get to the problem." Sherlock impatiently said. The kid just looked confused and continued.

"Today, I went into the clock tower and sat down where I always sit, but on the seat there was a puzzle piece. It was big though, like maybe three inches long. It's a corner piece, but I can tell that the puzzle is a picture of my face. I have a little scar by my chin, and it's here on the puzzle piece. See?" He took the piece out of his pocket and gave it to Sherlock. He examined it, and then said, "Keep explaining, you have more to tell me."

"No I don't!" the kid retorted.

"You're what, only eight years old, and you're consulting a detective? You could have just told your mommy about it, but no you're here with me. This puzzle piece is old and the paint is slightly worn. When you gave it to me you held it gently which is not normal for a young boy, which means it is sentimental to you, so you have seen this before. What is something that you have seen, is old, and now sentimental? Your dad's drawings, and no not your stepdad, your deceased one. That means dead. Now, John would tell me to be more polite and then ask, oh how could you ever know that? Because his shirt is too big on him, old, and there is obvious paint stains on it. Everything else he's wearing is new and clean, so this shirt means something to him. It's his dad's. I know he isn't alive because the boy's parents have enough money to buy nice clothes, so why not wear a nice shirt? He would wear one if his dad was still alive because he wouldn't be so sentimental, but since he is sentimental; his dad must not be alive. Now, the question is how did he die and what is so special about a puzzle?"

The kid stared with his mouth hanging open in wonder and shock, not that I was doing any different. It was quiet for a little, both of us trying to process the words that were just thrown at us. It impresses me how I have lived with him for so long, but every time I am still amazed at his deductions. The boy's screaming interrupted my thoughts. "WOAHHH, man that was crazy! You figured out like everything! The papers were right about you!" Sherlock just gave a small eye roll and muttered a little under his breath and re-asked the kid about his dad and the puzzle.

"My dad and I share a name, Jeffrey Nicholls. He died a year ago when I was seven, on his birthday. Actually his birthday is in exactly seven days! He died in a car crash because someone fell asleep at the wheel. You can look the case up online." Jeffrey said. Sherlock pulled out his laptop, and easily found the article.

**Artist Killed in Driving Accident**

June 15th, 2011 - by Don McNeil– _The Sun_

Yesterday, on the 14th, a tragic accident happened on Duncannon St. at approximately 9:13 P.M. A forty year-old male, Brian Beeley was driving the opposite way of artist Jeffrey Nicholls. He fell asleep and his hand that was on the wheel slipped down, caused the wheel to rapidly turn, and ran straight into Nicholls. Beeley lived because of the airbag, but since his car ran into the side of Nicholls' car, no airbag was there to save him.

Nicholls was an artist who had his own unique style. He would paint real-life drawings of everyday life and put puzzle piece outlines over the drawing. The puzzle piece outline would correspond with the painting to make you think, cause confusion, and show how confusing life really is. Now, all his unfinished paintings are going to be in storage at the Apsley House in Hyde Park Corner. He will be remembered forever and his art is a growing style throughout the world.

"They didn't take one painting: the one of me." Jeffrey said. "The painting stayed in our basement, and it isn't there anymore so someone broke in, stole it, cut it up, and now is giving it to me piece by piece."

"Well, this is very interesting. Thank you Jeffrey! Go home before your parents call the police wondering where you are." Sherlock said. If this man gave one piece to the boy, he's going to give another. Maybe Sherlock could just sit in the clock tower and wait for him to come. I offered the idea, but Sherlock told me that he is obviously clever enough to know that were watching and would wait for us to leave. After that, he laid down on the couch and rambled on for quite I while, so I just left to get food. When I got back to our apartment, he was gone. I just left the extra food I got for him on the table and went to the bedroom to sleep; for I had a feeling that tomorrow would be a busy day.

Voices woke me. My eyes fluttered open and everything was a blur. Two silhouettes came into view; Sherlock's and a little boy's. Suddenly, Sherlock's voice penetrated my still-sleeping eardrums awake. "Oh John! You're awake! Good!" Still cloudy, I sat up. I wasn't in the bedroom anymore, I was on the couch. Jeffrey was staring at me and Sherlock was pacing.

"Hold on, Sherlock how did I get here? I was in the bedroom." I questioned.

"Right. Well I needed the room for my project, so I dragged you here."

"And while I was sleeping, you invited Jeffrey over to talk to him, without bothering to wake me?"

"Wake you? That seems a little mean doesn't it?" Sherlock said earnestly. I just shook my head and asked what he has figured out so far.

"There are six pieces left in the puzzle and six days until the artist's birthday, which means this man is connecting whatever he is planning with his birthday. Right before you woke up, Jeffrey told me that every year on his dad's birthday, he would go down to the hospital and donate some art supplies, teach art lessons, and let the patients draw. Then, the family would go camping in Lee Valley. I'm thinking it is one of the patients in the hospital who really loves art. This patient doesn't need 24-hour care, probably is poor since he or she cannot buy his or her own art supplies. John, hurry and get ready. We're going to the hospital. Jeffrey, this patient is threatening you and will probably hurt you if you don't donate supplies! Now go study or something. We have an ailing, destitute, artist to find!"

I splashed some water on my face, grabbed my jacket and rushed out the door to catch up with Sherlock. I wasn't very fond of him going to a hospital, especially if he doesn't know who he is looking for. When I arrived at the hospital, he was already at the nurse's desk. I walked over and listened to their conversation.

"Can I look at your patient records, mam?" Sherlock said. Without looking up, the nurse replied, "Sorry, patient confidentiality. I can't." Sherlock pulled out his, or should I say, Lestrade's badge. Unwillingly, she moved away from her computer and let him look. First, he looked up today's check-in and check-out times. Then he checked yesterdays, then the day before that, and the day before that. Each time he scrolled to the times around 4:00.

"John, let's go. I have all the information I need. A patient here is able to leave the hospital everyday between 4:00 to 5:00. Her name is Valerie Hamilton, in the psych ward. I'm guessing she likes art. She certainly went through a lot of trouble just for art supplies." Sherlock said, and we left to the hospital cafeteria for breakfast. Before I could even enjoy the first bite of my pancakes, Sherlock started talking. "Today, we're going to the clock tower at 4 to catch her. She's very clever but dangerous because she is bored in the hospital, so she causes calamities for fun. This Valerie could easily steal some art supplies, but that is too easy for her. Instead, she steals a painting, figures out where the son of the artist likes to dwell, and scares him. If she is capable of that in just one-hour windows, she could do something much more. We are going to catch her this afternoon. Meet me at the clock tower at 3:30 sharp. I'm going to go learn about this woman." With that, he left me there. I would have been mad at him for leaving, but there was a sad lady sitting across the room. I might as well comfort her.

I was walking toward the clock tower, and Sherlock was already there. We went in, up the steps, and found a spot where we could watch the door. We just sat in silence for what I guess was thirty minutes. Then, there was a sound. It sounded like someone was opening a bottle of water, then drank some, and screwed the lid back on. There was a loud a click, and it was silent again. Sherlock started sniffing like dog around the smell of meat. "Do you smell that?" Sherlock asked. Then, he pulled out his phone, scanned the screen, and quickly pressed a button while stuffing it back securely into his pocket. I smelled the air. It was smoke. "Maybe she smokes?" I asked. "No, the hospital would never allow her to, and the smell is too strong." Suddenly, a big gray cloud quickly starts climbing up the building. "It's a fire! It started from down there so we'll have to jump!" Sherlock yelled at me. The gray filled up around me and my lungs felt like they collapsed. I followed Sherlock up to where the actual clock was. He punched the glass with his fist and looked down. I caught up and looked down with him. My eyes were foggy, but I saw crowds of people staring up and the green grass where my demise would be. I looked behind me. Anything past two inches from my face was black. The only light I saw were the bright red flames that were accelerating towards us. "Those bushes! We can-" Sherlock tried to say. Then he fell unconscious. Smoke doesn't make you just fall like that, he wasn't even choking. Gas! Someone let out sleeping gas? My eyes started to droop and my muscles felt like noodles. I have to jump now. I looked down at the bushes, but all I saw was gray blur. Sweat poured down my face. With the last of my energy and oxygen, I grabbed Sherlock's hand and prepared myself. Right before I jumped, my mind went blank. My legs gave out and I fell out of the clock tower with Sherlock, also unconscious.

My eyes flickered open. As the real world hit me, my whole body started to ache. Multiple scratches covered my body. By looking at them, I guessed that we were out for about three hours. I couldn't move a muscle in my right leg without yelling in agonizing pain. I was sitting on a wood chair. My hands and legs were tied back, just like Sherlock. Our chairs were back to back and handcuffed together. There were two thick columns by us that our chairs were tied to. We were in a 20m by 20m room. There was a table pushed against one of the concrete walls. On it was a lighter, gasoline, a whip, and a pistol. There was one small light in the middle of the room, and we were right under it. I heard a small moan that came from Sherlock, who just woke up. I could tell he was examining himself and the room we were in. With perfect timing, the door opened and I squinted at the light that poured in. A man walked in and shut the door. He started walking in circles around us, with a smirk, but also animosity. He had a big build, wore a black t-shirt with cut sleeves, short and spiky hair, with myriad scars and scratches all over his body.

"Well it's nice to see you guys again. You don't know me, but I know you. You know my colleagues… or gang members. You remember Black Lotus? I am one of the gang members that the police never tracked. A package was supposed to come from London, but I never got it. You know why? Because the person who was supposed to send it was getting arrested because of the Great Sherlock Holmes! Thanks to Mr. Watson's blog, I came here and found you guys. I had to lure you in though, so I created a fake case for you. The hardest part was probably getting the fake patient onto the hospital's system. I thought the fire would do it, but it didn't. I would let you guys die from falling, but the impact would be instant. You wouldn't suffer. I couldn't let that happen, so I saved you and brought you here."

"Thank you, really. I appreciate you saving our lives." Sherlock wittily replied. The man slapped Sherlock in the face. My breathing pace increased with every step this person took. My life had been threatened many times, but this was different. I always had a gun or knife with me, something to defend myself. I had nothing here, not even my bare hands. The feeling of hopelessness sunk into body, and I'm sure Sherlock's too. I started to sweat as I listened to the footsteps getting closer to the table against the wall and closed my eyes. I took a deep breath, tried to calm myself and slow my heart rate down, but the clinking of gasoline cans being opened wasn't helping. He slowly paced toward me. Every step he took rang in my ear and radiated down my body. I opened my eyes and looked at him in front of me. The walls seemed to sink in and the only two things in the universe were me and him, and soon to be only him. "You would rather kill us than get the money? If you let us go, we'll give you your money. I can see that you have a family you need to take care of, so you need it. There is no way you can get it without us. Let us go and we'll give it to you." Sherlock tried to negotiate. There was no way he wouldn't take the deal. It was a perfect deal, both of us win. Anyone in their right mind would say yes, or maybe my desperation was getting to me. Of course, this man isn't in his right mind and said, "No! I needed the money; I don't need it anymore. You are too late! My family left me and ran away to another country to start a new life because I didn't have the money. It's too late Sherlock." The man said.

He started pouring the gasoline. He poured a circle of it around my chair. It was cold and thick, with the most putrid smell. "You know Lestrade knew we were in the clock tower and is wondering where I am now. In fact, he is on his way here. You will be caught no matter what, unless you let us go now. The money will let you buy a plane ticket to any country you want, so you can find your family." I didn't know if Sherlock was bluffing or not. I didn't think Lestrade had any clue what we were doing or where we were. My body was still filled with fear, my breathing was still accelerated, and I was praying for this man to let us go. "Sherlock, I'm sure you've deduced that I'm not stupid. Now, you get to watch John burn in front of you, and you can't do anything about it! How great is that?" The man said. He turned our chairs around so we were facing each other. For the first time, I saw fear, despair, and penitent in his eyes. The clink of the lighter broke our gaze. Sherlock started talking, "I applaud you, actually. Using the boy and dressing him like he was, that was clever. But no, that wasn't the best part. The best part was the fake patient. You knew I'd check. You knew everything I would do and was always one step ahead. One step ahead the smartest man in the universe and you end up becoming a smuggler. Tell me how that happened, daddy issues?" His voice was smooth and convincing; he seemed calm. Maybe he was stalling for someone to come find us, but the pain was creeping back and the shine from the gasoline looked as though it was mocking me.

I closed my eyes and let the darkness encompass me while I took in a deep breath. "You seem intimidating, but you wouldn't hurt a soul. Your family- they didn't leave you- they're dead. Their names are clearly tattooed on your arm. Also, before, when you said they moved, your voice was quick and higher pitched, implying a lie. The little faded scars around your ankles and your agitation to loud noises means you were probably a road paver, but you have been lifting heavy things for a while considering the way your back is slouched. You have been smuggling since you were little; your dad got you in to the business. So it was daddy issues?" God! Sherlock's ignorance might be the thing that gets us killed here. The man's eyes looked distant. I might have seen guilt in them, but that quickly went away as he neared toward me and bent down. He lit the circle around me. "NO! John!" Sherlock yelled. He struggled to get out of his chair, but it was no use. A circle of fire burst up in front of me and sweat cascaded down my face. My mind was inattentive. "Goodbye Sherlock," were the last words I could get out. The man smiled, lit the lighter, and started for me feet when all of a sudden the door flies open and the sound of a gunshot pierced my ears. The man was lying dead on the ground with bullet in his chest. I started to breathe again, though they were coming out in large gasps. "John! John are you OK!" Sherlock said as Lestrade came in and untied his hands. Sherlock came and lit out the fire out with his scarf. "Yes. Yes I'm alive Sherlock. Fine? Not so much." I replied. He turned to Lestrade and said, "Earlier next time, would be better!"

"Yeah, sorry Sherlock, bad signal down here," Lestrade answered.

Then two stretchers were taken in to the room, and we got on. The ride to the hospital was a daze, partially because I was still hyperventilating, partially because of the morphine. At the hospital, I was out for a while. When I woke up, my leg still ached, but most of me felt fine. Sherlock was in his blue gown next to me talking to someone that looked like a business man. "John! I'm so glad you're OK! I have another case!" At that point, I swear I was going to kill Sherlock if it weren't for my leg.

"What did you mean by 'earlier next time' when you were talking to Lestrade?" I asked. Was this…planned? "Oh nothing, Watson! Lestrade warned me that the last man from the Black Lotus gang was in London and was extremely clever. The minute I saw the boy, I knew he was sent by him, and no psych ward would ever let someone outside alone!"

"Wait Sherlock, so you're telling me that you expected this! You risked _our _lives, _my_ life, used us as _bait, _without telling me! We could have been killed in there! What if Lestrade didn't show up!"

"I didn't expect the fire, so quick change of plans. I turned my phone GPS on, but you're alive and still here!" I thought about it, and, I really shouldn't be surprised. This was Sherlock, and when you walk with him, you see the battlefield.

He made up for it later, though. After I got discharged, I went to our apartment and there was a banner hanging from the ceiling that said, "Sorry John!" Below it, on the table, there was a plate with food on it. It looked like handicapped pancakes, scrambled eggs that looked like vomit, and a cup of coffee. There was a note under the plate. It said "I made a homemade meal for you. Enjoy. –SH" A smile cracked across my face and I sat down. Then I saw our kitchen.


End file.
